Angel Lane (22 page)

“Pyewacket! You are the worst cat ever!”

As if he cared. He loved being the worst cat ever, delighted in it. He combed a paw over his head, smoothing his silky black fur. No one had told him that pretty is as pretty does.

“Are you listening to me?” Of course he wasn't. She stamped her foot and clapped her hands together, making him jump and scoot out of the room. “That's it,” she called after him. “I'm taking you to the animal shelter where you can never destroy anything again!”

Pye didn't stop to regard her with his usual look of superior unconcern. This time he kept right on running. A black cat behind disappeared out the front door, which she'd stupidly left open in her haste to get to her plant corpse.

Oh, no! He hadn't been outside since the day she brought him in. She hurried down the hall to the front door. “Pye?”

There was no sign of Pyewacket. She stood in the doorway, listening for a meow, a yowl, even a kitty growl. Nothing. “Pye? Here, kitty, kitty. Mommy's sorry. I didn't mean it about the animal shelter. Really.” She stepped out onto the porch and peered under the juniper bush. No Pye. She hurried down the walk, calling his name. Nothing. It was freezing and a cold rain
was misting down. Rubbing her arms, she turned and went back to the front door. She called his name one last time. Nothing.

He'll be back, she told herself as she shut the door. He'll get scared and cold and he'll come home.

She put away her food. Then she opened the front door to see if Pye was on the doorstep. He wasn't.

She cleaned up the mess, then spent a little time seeing what was new in
My World
. After that she checked her e-mails. A friend had sent her a cat picture from Cute Overload and she quickly closed it. She put her computer to sleep and opened the front door one last time. No Pye.

“Okay, fine,” she yelled. “Stay out in the cold all night. I hope it rains dogs on you!”

She slammed the door and went and took a bath. Once she was comfortable in her jammies she fetched her quilt in progress, put on her DVD of
Sabrina,
and settled into her chair to do some basting. And just as the new and improved Sabrina was making her Cinderella appearance at the Larrabee family bash, she pricked her finger.

“Damn!” She dropped the quilt on her lap. “Damn!” she repeated because the first one had felt so good. Then, possessed by temporary insanity, she shoved the quilt onto the floor and stood up and swore one more time because, of course, the third time was the charm. But it wasn't. So she hooked a toe under the stupid, who-cared-if-it-ever-got-done-piece-of-poop quilt and kicked it. It lifted like a big bat and fell in folds at her feet. She stepped on it. Then she jumped on it. And stabbed her toe on a pin. She picked it up to rip to pieces with her bare hands and instead burst into tears.

Still crying, she dropped the quilt, turned off the TV, and went to bed and indulged in a good cry. By the time she was done she had a major headache going. “Stop it,” she scolded herself as she went to the medicine cabinet for aspirin. “It's just a stray cat. A stupid stray cat.”

She got into bed and burrowed under the covers. She hoped Pye would be okay. She hoped she would be okay.

 

 

 

 

I
t's my birthday on Saturday,” Damaris announced at the next baking class. She gave invitations to the other girls much like a queen handing out gifts. “You can all come to my party. My mom rented
High School Musical Reunion
on Netflix. And I'm having a
High School Musical
cake.”

“Awesome,” breathed Lissa.

“And we're gonna make jewelry,” Damaris continued. “My mom bought beads. You can all bring me
High School Musical
stuff.”

“Very considerate,” Sarah said, “helping your friends out with gift ideas.”

Of course, her sarcasm was lost on Damaris. She was beaming. “Now that I'm ten Mom says I can have a cell phone, and I get to get my ears pierced.”

“My dad won't let me get my ears pierced till I'm thirteen,” Lissa grumbled.

“There's nothing wrong with waiting,” Sarah assured her. “And thirteen is a great time to get your ears pierced. You have a special way to kick off your teen years.”

“My mom said she had her ears pierced when she was a baby,” said Damaris.

Damaris was obviously going to grow up to be a lawyer. She had a comeback for everything. “Okay, ladies,” Sarah said, “let's talk and work at the same time. Wash your hands and we'll get started.”

Handwashing went without incident, but it was all downhill from there. Creaming together eggs, sugar, and butter should have been easy. Mash up butter and sugar. Crack the eggs in a separate bowl to ensure the cookie dough stayed free of shells. Then dump in with butter and sugar. But somewhere between bowls the eggs got lost, slurping down the side of the counter.

“Way to go,” said Damaris, probably channeling one of her older brothers.

“It's okay,” Sarah told Mandy, who was responsible for the mishap and looked teary. “We'll just clean this up and start again.”

And that was when the phone rang. Caller ID warned Sarah that it was Betty, but she couldn't not answer, not when Betty's granddaughter was at her house. Maybe Betty needed to talk to Beanie.

“I just picked up some Cheetos,” said Betty. “Do the girls need a snack? Should I bring them over?”

“Oh, I think we're fine here,” said Sarah. She'd already filled
the after-school empty corners with nachos. Hey, she could be taught.

“I'll get more eggs,” said Beanie, opening the refrigerator.

“I can get them,” said Damaris, crowding in next to her.

“I'll get them,” Beanie insisted, her voice rising as Damaris grabbed for the carton.

“Are you sure?” asked Betty. “Because it's no problem to drop them by.”

Now the girls were having a tug-of-war. “Girls,” Sarah said, working hard to stay serene and patient, “just wait to take the eggs out of the fridge till I'm—”

Splat
.

“Off the phone.”

“You dropped all the eggs,” Damaris accused Beanie. “Now we can't bake cookies.”

“You made me,” Beanie retorted. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Goodwin,” she wailed, looking at the mess on the floor.

“It's okay,” said Sarah. “It was an accident.”

“Is everything okay over there?” asked Betty.

“I want to make cookies,” Mandy said in a small voice.

“We will,” Sarah said calmly. “Betty, have you got a couple of eggs I can borrow?”

“Oh, of course. I'll be right over,” said Betty.

Goody
.

“Hey, there's one that's not broken,” cried Damaris.

“I'll get it,” said Beanie, diving for the egg.

“It's okay, girls. I'll get it.” Sarah went for the egg, anxious to head off a wrestling match on her kitchen floor. Her left foot made contact with something slimy. And slippery. Like a skater
in trouble, she windmilled her arms, then went down on her bottom with an oomph to a chorus of squeals.

Damaris burst out laughing. “Oh, my gosh, Mrs. Goodwin. That was just like on AFV. If we'd taped that and sent it in you could have won ten thousand dollars.”

Which she then could have used to pay the doctor to put her back together again.

The doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” said Damaris.

“It's my grandma. I'll get it,” said Beanie, racing after her down the hall. Both were probably tracking raw egg all over the carpet in the process.

Meanwhile, Sarah had her hands full focusing on getting off the floor. She tried to stand and found a fresh egg-white puddle to slip in. Down she went again. Oh, this was such fun. Who was the idiot who thought it would be a good idea to teach little girls to bake?

She finally grabbed the counter and hauled herself up with Lissa attempting to help her.

“Are you okay?” asked Lissa.

It could have been worse. At least she'd landed on her most padded end. But she had managed to wrench her back. It was going to be a two-Advil night. “I'm fine,” she said, as much to herself as the child.

“Egads, what a mess.” Now Betty was in the kitchen, holding a carton of eggs and a bag of Cheetos and gawking at the puddle on the floor.

“We had a little accident,” said Sarah. “But everything's under control.” Somewhere in the universe this was true.

Betty looked dubiously at Sarah's egg-slopped jeans.

“It's okay,” Sarah assured her.

“Do you want me to help you clean this up?” Betty offered.

“No, no. We'll be fine. We'll be back on track in no time.” Sarah took two eggs from the carton and cracked them into the mixing bowl. “Okay, girls. Have at it. I'll just walk Mrs. Bateman to the door.” She slipped off her egg-drenched socks and started Betty moving toward the front door.

As they left the kitchen, Sarah could hear Lissa saying, “It's my turn to work the mixer.”

“No it's not,” insisted Damaris.

“You got to do it last time,” said Beanie.

“You are a saint,” said Betty.

Or else she was insane.

“If the girls need a break, they can have those Cheetos,” Betty said. “Beanie loves Cheetos. And you can keep the whole carton of eggs. Safeway has them on sale. I got two cartons. Oh, they have rump roast on sale right now, too.”

She was still talking about her grocery bargains as Sarah eased her out the door.

With Betty finally gone, she hurried back to the kitchen, where suspicious quiet now reigned. She found the girls gathered at the kitchen table, devouring the Cheetos. Well, good. It would give her time to change and clean up the mess on the floor. “I'll be right back,” she said, and picked up her trashed socks and hurried off down the hall.

Another ten minutes and the cookie production was once more under control. Her junior bakers enjoyed looping the ropes of pink- and plain-colored dough into candy canes, and were
pleased with their works of art. Damaris's father was actually on time to pick her up, mainly because they ran ten minutes over. He took Beanie, too, sparing Sarah from another never-ending conversation with Betty. Sarah breathed a sigh of relief as she waved George and the girls off, and then returned to put her kitchen back together.

“One more class,” she told herself as she wiped down the counters. She sprinkled cleanser into the kitchen sink and scrubbed it out. Then she washed the counter on both sides and took a swipe at the windowsill, moving her knickknacks around. And that was when she noticed that her little vintage Hen on the Nest was missing.

She stood a moment, looking at the empty spot where it had been only . . . when? A day ago? A week ago? When had it gone missing? And how?

She thought of the times in the last couple of weeks that a certain child had been left unsupervised in her kitchen, remembered her conversation with the girls about her collectibles, and her eyes narrowed. She was going to kill that kid.

Except she had no proof that Damaris had taken her little hen, and, really, no way of finding out. She supposed she could confront Damaris, but if she did, the child would simply deny having taken it.

She could call the girl's mother. And Damaris would still deny having taken it. It was probably well hidden by now.

It looked as if Sarah would have to let this go, but she sure didn't want to. She had a silly sentimental attachment to that little chicken. “That will teach you,” she scolded herself.

She took the salt and pepper shakers and stowed them in the
top shelf of her dish cupboard, vowing not to leave her kitchen unguarded again. Next week would be the last baking class. And the last time she did something like this. Ever.

 

“Damaris's party is today,” Lissa reminded her father Saturday morning. “You said we'd get a present.”

He'd forgotten. In fact, he'd forgotten all about the party. Kid parties and presents for kid parties, he'd always thought that sort of thing would be handled by his wife. Well, that was Plan A. When Crystal died a lot of things got refiled under Plan B.

“Let me just finish my coffee.” He'd need the caffeine.

He remembered the days of accompanying Crystal to the mall. Talk about an activity designed to sap the energy right out of a guy. Crystal had loved to shop. And compare bargains. And try on clothes. And make her poor man sit outside the dressing room holding her purse. He'd tried any number of ways to cope: bringing along a Tom Clancy novel, reciting baseball stats, watching for potential shoplifters. Nothing really helped. Shopping was for women. But a man in love did what he had to do.

Lissa had inherited her mother's shopping gene. Josh poured himself another cup of coffee.

“Daddy!”

“Okay, okay.” He transferred it to a travel mug and followed the girls out the door with Lissa in the lead. A man did what he had to do.

An hour later they had combed Vern's for
High School Musical
paraphernalia and come up empty-handed. There had been plenty in August, the clerk informed him, but they'd had a run
on the notebooks and pencil boxes at the beginning of the school year, and once school supplies were gone at Vern's they were gone until the next school year.
You snooze, you lose
.

“Hey, how about this?” Josh suggested, picking up a game.

Lissa made a face. “Daddy, that's boring.”

“Since when is Operation boring?” Josh demanded. They'd played it just a few months ago.

She didn't answer him. She was too busy examining the wares in front of her. Judging from the frown, none of them were measuring up.

He picked up some kind of Barbie doll. “How about this?”

“She doesn't play with dolls.”

“I want that,” said Mandy. “Can I have it, Daddy?”